Kevin Page: Scottish bowels and vowels

Kevin Page

It is entirely possible I have told you this story before, I can't remember.

Nurse Mrs P says the fact I can't recall whether this particular tale has been tapped out on my trusty keyboard previously is a sign of a general decline in my mental faculties.

I tend to think it may have something to do with the accidental whack on the scone I received last Sunday which both sat me on my backside and led to some dizziness and nausea on Monday/Tuesday and a diagnosis of delayed concussion.

Either way, on Wednesday, when I did feel well enough to troll through the volumes of my weekly warblings living somewhere in the back of this computer I realised I'd stupidly named them by date, not name. Consequently I gave up after half an hour of searching.

So you may have heard it before. It's a goodie though, so stick around for the punchline.

Ironically, it concerns male health - which is totally appropriate with us just having gone through Men's Health Week - and the personal dangly bits us blokes just don't seem to want to talk about.

I saw our very own Dr Lance O'Sullivan on the telly the other morning talking about men's health and the importance of at least having "the conversation". It seems us blokes are not very good at talking about it.

Anyway. The story.

As a youngster of 12, I was brought to this country by my parents and we started completely afresh.

New town. New house. New school. New everything, including a new doctor, who just happened to be Scottish and spoke in the thickest of barely understandable Scottish accents.

One day I awoke with a vicious temperature and severe stomach pains. Sufficiently concerned to accept the cost of a home visit, my parents summoned the doctor.

For the next 20 minutes I was poked and prodded everywhere as the doctor went about his diagnosis, occasionally asking a question. I could make out some of the words but in the main he may as well have been talking in clicks, as some peoples actually do in southern Africa.

Luckily my dad was able to act as interpreter and he relayed the questions to me in English.

Apart from one concerning the lower half of my person.

There was no need. I clearly understood the odd question the doc had asked and I hoped he clearly understood my indignant reply of "No!", which also told him "I may only be 12 but I'm a bloke; you just don't go there".

Later, after the doc had departed, my dad questioned whether I had, in fact, understood this key question, particularly as he was aware I had been to the toilet and had a "bowel" (remember, broad Scottish accent) motion.

"What did you think he asked?," he said, a knowing smile beginning to creep over his face.
"I thought he said: "Did your balls move," I said with the innocence of a 12-year-old who had just learnt a new word.

To this day the image of my father doubled up with laughter makes me smile.

Sadly, dad wasn't with us much longer after that.

I'll never know if he could have been around longer for my mum, brother and me, or to see his grandkids or his new great granddaughter.

You see my dad never went to the doctor, never had regular check-ups which could have prolonged his life because, well, he wasn't old and he was just too busy, he said. If I'm honest there was a fat lot of consolation in that view for me when he died suddenly of a massive heart attack aged just 46.

So let's grow another pair guys and start talking about it and get to the doctor.
If we don't we could die and leave our loved ones to fend for themselves. Simple as that.